While I’m aware standard social mores do not necessitate open letters to strangers who impress us in some fashion, your behavior during the dinnertime rush was so masterful that I could not let the opportunity pass.

I could tell fellow patrons and I were in for a treat before a sandwich artist even tended to you, simply through your droll, slightly spastic behavior. With your dismissive hand motions and perceptible eye rolls to yourself, you perfectly exuded the character of a man who has the mental free will to choose any eatery in the area, but whose body is possessed by an evil spirit that loves Italian Herbs & Cheese bread.

Once a sandwich artist asked you what you’d like, your talents really began to show. As though the teenager behind the counter had asked you what brand of Communistic dictatorship you would prefer to slave under, you gave a caustic, “Ehhh… I don’t know what you call it. Turkey and ham—there!” You resolutely pointed to a panel of the menu that contained neither turkey nor ham. “The turkey and ham, whatever.” Good show, sir. The sandwich artist was not going to fool you with his mind games!

As your sandwich came under construction, you turned the tables on that interrogative artist by grilling him on why there was bread simply hanging around on a rack behind him instead of within the hermetically sealed bread storage container.

“It’s the evening rush,” the sandwich artist replied, an answer that you were obviously unamused with if you had even heard it, since you had already aggressively moved on to “fixin’s.” While I am sure the others behind me simply saw this as a “jerk move,” I, sir, could see it as a strong showing of your will against the evil spirit within you who demanded less talk and more banana peppers.

Suddenly, a delay. The sandwich artist, in all audacity, had to go to the backroom for more of the hot sauce you and/or your evil spirit had requested. You did not let this stop your constructive attitude, however, as you quickly engrossed yourself in figuring out how the chip racks were connected to the counter in front of you. Jostling and banging the metals frames with the same mixture of childish curiosity and steely determination possessed of an ape attempting to free a banana from a hamster ball, I couldn’t help but smile warmly as your eyes lit up with revelation of the answer you sought.

It was back to business, however, as the sandwich artist’s return so rudely disrupted your discovery time.

“What’s with the holdup around here?” you asked accusingly.

Sir, I say this with all sincerity: Next time I come to Subway, I too will order a large dollop of irony on my sandwich only to see for myself if it as delicious as you had presented it at that very moment.

As you finally paid for your food and departed from the line that had significantly built up behind you, I knew that I had truly been in the presence of a master; one I felt I could only honor by being extra nice to the sandwich artist and making your glory stand out even further in contrast. It was the best I could do.

Tim Latshaw